


Ragged 'Round the Edges

by ossseous (ozean)



Series: The Unrest Between [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Casual Sex, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, billy pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12631281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: Billy Hargrove might be a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. There's no point to it as far as he is concerned.





	Ragged 'Round the Edges

It’s what he wants. Saying otherwise would be a lie. Billy Hargrove might be a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. There's no point to it as far as he is concerned. So when Steve’s hand slips up to the nape of his neck and gets a warm grip on the base of his skull, Billy shuts his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose.

And reminds himself he wants it.

 “Harder.”

It’s a little muffled, under the music. _Find something to keep me satisfied_ bellowing out loud enough to drown out anything. Sounds from outside. Sounds from inside. Even thoughts inside his head every now and then. But the way his jaw is caught between the bed and Steve’s hand doesn’t help. Apparently the general sentiment comes through because Steve’s second hand makes an appearance and clamps around his wrist, pins Billy to his own bed. It’s a paltry effect—the ridiculous notion that someone as weak as Steve could hold him down. And he would scoff about it, and maybe he does somewhere in those meaningless seconds he’ll forget about later. But whatever sound comes out of his indignation is lost as he finds himself taking all of Steve’s weight.

So he doesn’t dwell on Steve’s hubris. He just spreads his legs wider, lifts his hips higher. Takes him deeper and deeper.

It feels like the air gets punched out of him with each shove Steve aims into him. If Steve relented even the slightest, Billy would probably just stop it all right there. Push Steve off of him, slam his fist into the tape deck and drop his room into utter silence and just glare until Steve finally caught the hint and scampered off to wherever the hell it was people like Steve got made. The suburbs probably.

No. Definitely the suburbs.

But Steve doesn’t relent. Not at all, and Billy groans into it. The sound catches on his throat, and Steve must lean down then because soon enough, all Billy can hear is his breath, warm against his ear, desperate and getting faster and faster.

“Harder,” he tries again. Billy Hargrove doesn’t beg, so he hopes that breathless little crack on the last syllable is drowned out. By the music, by that rhythmic beat of creaking springs. By the heavy gasping breaths—the ones he’s no longer sure just who they belong to.

“Give me a break here, okay?” Steve grunts out. He adjusts then, braces his forearm against the spread of Billy’s shoulders and _finally_ , he thinks. _Now we’re getting somewhere._ If that spark, the one pulsing up his spine and searing out to each of his fingertips is any indication, they’re getting there sooner rather than later.

Which is good, he has to tell himself. Because his old man gets in from work in 45 minutes and there’s a lot of things Billy can get away with in that household with little more than a boxed ear or a bloody nose. But this, it’s the kind of thing that’d put him in the ground.

Before he can even instinctively glance at the clock, Steve hits a damn good spot. It comes up without any warning or indication or even a god damn smoke signal that Billy’s vision’s going to come that close to fading out. It might not even be the best spot, but it’s a good runner up. It has him cursing, burying his face in the sheets. He braces his knees into the mattress, nearly bucks up from the bed. If there’s one thing he’s good for, it’s a good ride and he hopes Steve appreciates everything Billy is blessing him with because before he can keep himself from toppling over the edge, he’s freefalling right into it.

He doesn’t even fight it, the way it pulls shivers from his whole body. The way his muscles bind up tight as he comes into the sheets with a breathless laugh and _keep me, keep me, keep me satisfied_ repeating over and over from the crackle of his shitty cheap speakers.

And just like that he’s sinking so deep into the mattress he thinks he might become one with it.

And it’s when the song’s fading out and he’s cracking his eyes open that he notices it.

Steve’s hand has moved. It’s higher, cupped around the back of his own. How long had it been like that? Seeing it is just short of getting doused in cold water. A lingering shock of realization echoing around his skull. The dull way his brain processes it as the track ends altogether and the only sound he can hear is Steve’s breaths getting faster, frantic, and the final click of the cassette begging to be flipped.

Steve’s thumb is tucked in, hooked almost innocuously against his own. Rubbing mindless circles into his palm.

Steve’s thrusts speed up, fingers squeeze around his knuckles, pinching them tight together. Billy nostrils almost burn with how hard he’s breathing and when he tries to yank his hand away, Steve buckles down, groaning as he finally finishes, grinding in as deep as he can get.

* * *

“What the hell was that about?”

He lets the smoke seep out. The silence has only been growing since Steve collapsed to the side and Billy flipped onto his back. The clocks ticking down and the seconds are getting heavier. Normally they don't even talk after, but he'd got to nip this in the bud.

“What was what about?” Steve pushes his hair out of his face, stares at the ceiling because that is all either of them can really do. Actually acknowledging one another… that’s just too—

“The hand holding shit.” He makes sure to really punctuate his disgust before he pinches the cigarette in his lips and pulls the sheet up, uses it to wipe off all that K-Y Jelly drying between his legs. He’s going to have to wash it soon anyways. Like, _soon_ soon. Like the second Steve’s climbing out the window and slinking off to whatever street he parked his ugly car on kind of soon.

“We weren’t holding hands,” Steve says. It’s so resolute Billy almost buys into it.

But he can still feel it. The rough scrap of callouses against his skin still burns like an afterthought and he wants that feeling gone.

Billy refuses to look at him. Maintains a good four-inch buffer of damp, sweaty air between them, even if it means he has to dangle one of his feet off the bed. “Don’t do it again.”

In his peripheral, he can see Steve look over at him. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling though, blindly jabs his cigarette out in the ashtray.

Steve scoffs. It’s such a specific kind of sound, and Billy realizes he only ever hears someone make it when they are in a bed with him. “Whatever man.”

And with that Steve sits up, pulls his clothes on with staccato little yanks and within seconds he’s all prim and proper again and his ass is disappearing out the window without a single glance over his shoulder.

Billy doesn’t waste any time. He knows any second he’ll hear a car pull up out front and that Fuck You I’m Home door slam his father loves best. So he pulls himself up and yanks his sheets free from the mattress.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this isn't betaed, and I only proofread it like once lmao if you're willing to look past that, I'm [ossseous](http://ossseous.tumblr.com) on tumblr my dudes.
> 
> Also my brain is kind of fried right now so like, if you can suggest any tags I might have left off or should add please let me know.


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